Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  John caught up with Martin in the pie shop the same lunchtime. 'How's it going, son?' he asked as he took a seat and looked with disgust at the double portions of everything with liquor that the big man was digging into with his fork and spoon.

  'Mustn't grumble.'

  'Good. Got a job for you.'

  'Yeah?'

  'Yeah. You up for it?'

  'What?'

  'What I want you to do.'

  'Suppose.'

  'Good.' And he explained in words of one syllable.

  When he'd finished, Martin swallowed some pie and asked with his mouth full: 'Can I get my gun soon?'

  'Soon,' said John. 'Just be patient.'

  The next evening, Friday, around eight-thirty pm, Wally, Chas and Martin walked into the Beehive, bought drinks and sat down. The pub wasn't much busier than it had been the previous morning. An old boy in a raincoat and trilby sat at the bar next to the cat who apparently hadn't moved in a day and a half. The barman had been joined by a slatternly looking woman who might have been his wife or might not. At the bar sat two men in their late twenties who'd missed the Swinging Sixties and who still dressed in the remnants of the Teddy boy gear of their youth. To Wally and Chas they looked like something out of the Middle Ages. Martin didn't have much dress sense. In the far corner, an ancient woman nursed a port and lemon which she sucked through a mouthful of gum with few teeth.

  'Could do with some music in here,' said Wally.

  'That could be the next thing,' said Chas. 'Jukeboxes. Lots of money in jukeboxes.'

  'Mm,' replied Wally. 'Good idea. Have you told John?'

  'First things first. Let's get us a few pubs under our belts before we expand.'

  'Yeah.'

  'Let's go then,' said Chas, picking up his pint jug and lobbing it at the few bottles on optic behind the bar.

  The jug smashed a bottle of whiskey and went on to shatter the old fashioned mirror behind it. 'Yeah!' screamed Chas, as he picked up the table and hurled it at the man in the raincoat, who, agility belying his looks, ducked out of sight behind the counter as the cat fled.

  'Oi!' shouted the publican, but by then the three boys were hurling chairs and tables everywhere. The two bar staff retreated through a doorway, slamming it behind them. Only the old girl with the port and lemon stayed still as Wally went behind the bar, rung up the till and took the few pounds inside it. Martin ripped a chair apart and demolished the glasses and bottles behind the counter. The two teds looked at the size of him and slunk out by the front door. A couple of faces peered in from the public and snug but didn't interfere. When the saloon bar looked as if a war had been fought in it and stank of spilled spirits, the trio fled, diving into Wally's van and losing themselves in the back streets of Streatham. 'Fuckin' hell, but that was great,' said Wally as they sped along. 'I could do that every night.'

  'You might have to,' said Chas. 'Now where we going?'

  'Pictures,' said Martin. 'John promised. There's a new Elvis on up at the Palace.'

  'Jesus,' said Chas. 'I tell you what, we'll give you the ticket money and drop you off. I fancy a club. How about you, Wol?'

  'I'm up for it.'

  So that was what they did, giving Martin enough for a seat in the balcony and an ice cream in the interval. Two, in fact.

  The next morning John and Billy turned up at the Beehive just as a uniformed constable was leaving. 'This could be fun,' said John as they walked into the remains of the saloon bar. Broken tables and chairs were piled up in one corner, the optics were empty and tape had been stuck over the mirror. The publican was mopping up the far side of the bar. 'We're closed,' he growled without looking up.

  'Blimey,' said John. 'Had an accident?'

  The publican turned his head and John saw a light come on behind his eyes as he recognised him. 'Oh, it's you,' he said.

  'That's right, it's us. Looks like you had a spot of bother. Now what did I say?'

  The publican didn't reply as John picked up the broken back of a chair, regarded it and dropped it on to the floor again. 'I've got some mates who could help you get straight like I told you,' he said.

  'I might've met them last night.'

  'Don't know what you're talking about,' said John with a straight face. 'Now, what about that insurance we were talking about?'

  'That's down to the brewery.'

  'No it's not. It's down to you.'

  'The police have been here.'

  'And gone. Now that's where we come in. See, the cops have lots of places to look after, but we give personal service. This would never have happened if you'd listened the other day.'

  'I'll…' said the publicans.

  'No, mate,' said John. 'You won't. You'll pay us what we want and we'll take care of everything for you. Won't we, Billy?'

  Billy nodded.

  'How much?'

  'For a special introductory period,' said John enjoying every moment. 'A mere tenner a week. Blimey, it's bargain.'

  'And what do I get?'

  'Protection my friend. Protection from yobbos breaking up the place. We're just a phone call away,' and John took out one of the cards he'd had specially printed. On it was written 'SECURITY FORCE' in capital letters plus the number of the phone he'd had installed at his new flat. 'Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. What could be fairer?'

  'I don't know…'

  'Come on, son, cough up,' said John. 'You wouldn't want this to happen again, would you?'

  The publican shook his head, no mention this time of the Germans or his part in their downfall, which had in any case consisted of being in the catering corps stationed at Aldershot for the duration.

  'In advance,' said John. The publican took out a battered wallet from his pocket and counted out ten one pound notes.

  'Cheers,' said John pocketing the cash. 'And you must have mates in the trade.'

  The man nodded.

  'Put the word around, we're looking to expand.'

  Once outside, John Jenner put the money in his pocket and grinned at Billy.'Easy,' he said. 'What did I tell you?'

  'A lousy tenner,' said Billy. 'Not much is it?'

  'Look around, son,' said John, encompassing the whole of Streatham with a sweep of his arm. 'Today, the Beehive, tomorrow the world. This is just the start. Once word gets around, we'll be laughing. Now come on,

  I'll buy you a Wimpy. We're in the money, son.'

  'I don't really know,' said Martine in answer to Mark's question. 'Long before my time. I wasn't even born or thought of.' 'Exciting, though,' said Mark, finishing his beer. 'Oh yes,' said Martine. 'You eaten?' Mark shook his head.

  'There's a decent Indian just round the corner. Fancy a curry?' 'I don't mind.'

  'Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.'

  They left the bar and walked the short distance to the restaurant Martine had recommended. Once inside the warm, spice-scented room they were shown to a table at the back and Martine asked for beer and popadoms. When they were alone, Mark asked: 'Why did you show me those places tonight?'

  'A history lesson, like I said. Thought you might be interested in where it all started, now you're taking over.' 'Who said I was?'

  'It's obvious. Dad always wanted you to be the boss when he stepped down.'

  'Boss of not much,' said Mark and watched as Martine lit a cigarette. 'A few old men past their prime.' 'There's more to it than that.' 'Like what?'

  'I'll let Dad tell you that.'

  'Thanks.'

  'No problem.'

  The waiter bought their drinks, the popadoms and the mixed pickles. They'd had time to study the menu and they ordered their main courses.

  Once the waiter had left, Martine stubbed out her cigarette and dug in. 'I envy you,' she said. 'Why?'

  'Being a bloke.'

  'It's not all it's cracked up to be.' 'So you say.'

  'Martine, I don't know what's annoying you, but if it's me, just say so.'

  'Forget it,' she said.

  'OK.'

 
; When they'd finished the popadoms and the plates had been removed, Martine lit another cigarette. 'Want to sleep with me tonight?' she asked through a mouthful of smoke. 'What did you say?' said Mark. 'You heard.'

  'Jesus, Martine, but you're full of surprises.'

  'Look who my parents were,' she replied with a grin. 'Am I frightening you?' 'No.'

  'Bet I am. So?' 'So what?'

  'Don't piss about, Mark. Do you fancy it?' 'With your dad upstairs? No.' 'It'll be more fun that way.' 'I said no.'

  'Is it because of Linda?' 'It's nothing to do with her.'

  'Course it is.' Mark could see she was beginning to get angry as the volume of her voice rose. 'Why do you want to sleep with her again? She's had a couple of kids, hasn't she? You fancy stretch marks, do you?' 'Keep your voice down,' said Mark. 'Don't tell me what to do.'

  The other diners were beginning to notice their argument as Martine got even louder. 'Just calm down,' said Mark.

  'Bollocks to calm down,' she shouted as the waiter arrived with a trolley loaded with food which he began to set out on their table.

  'Martine,' said Mark.

  'Don't Martine me,' she spat back. "Will you or won't you?'

  'I couldn't,' said Mark. 'You're like my sister. It'd be like incest.'

  'Incest, you bastard!' She was screaming now, and heads were popping out of the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about. 'You're just a fucking pussy.'

  Mark didn't reply.

  'Piss off, you wus,' she yelled, threw her napkin at him, got up and flounced towards the door, turning before she left. 'I only ask once, and that's it. You'll be sorry, I promise. And you can bloody well walk home or get Linda to give you a lift.'

  The door closed behind her with a draught of cold air and Mark was left to face the other customers and the staff. He calmly asked for the bill, paid in cash, abandoned the food cooling on the table, and left the restaurant.

  Martine's car was gone and he did walk home through the frozen streets, to calm himself down. When he got back to the house the Mini was parked on the front. He tried the key that John Jenner had given him, but the door had been locked from the inside and he had to ring the bell and wait for Chas to come from the back to open it. 'Had a bit of a row?' he asked, but Mark just thanked him and went upstairs to his room.

  That night he didn't lock the door, and afterwards asked himself if he'd forgotten, or if he expected what happened to happen. It was a tough call.

  He fell asleep quickly, but woke up again at that strange hour between two and three in the morning, when the winter night was at its darkest and bodies were more likely to give up their souls.

  As soon as he opened his eyes he knew someone else was in the room. Someone warm and fragrant and female who had pulled back the covers of his bed and was stroking his naked body to arousal. He was on his back, his cock was hard, and she was ready to lower her wetness on to him and make him hers. But Mark held her waist and lifted her off, dropping her on to the floor by the side of his bed with a thump and a gasp. 'I told you no,' he said, suddenly wide awake.

  'You bastard,' she said back.

  'And I thought you only asked once.'

  She hit him then, a hard blow to the side of the head, but he'd suffered worse and just laughed in the silence of the room. 'You'll have to do better than that,' he said. 'Now piss off.'

  'You'll be sorry,' she hissed. 'Sorrier than you'll ever know.'

  'Then do whatever you're going to do and get it over with.' He was suddenly tired again. 'But let me get some sleep, will you?'

  He saw her naked form glowing whitely in the darkness, the darker triangle between her legs, before she got up, gathered her dignity and her dressing gown around herself and left, slamming the door behind her.

  Mark got up, went to the door, locked it, then went back to bed where he lay awake much longer than he intended to.

  Chapter 16

  'Sean. In here.'

  It was shift change early the next morning and Sean had just arrived at Streatham Police Station where his DI was waiting. The previous evening he'd spent in the company of his sister who had been in one of the strange moods that overtook her sometimes. He knew that the loss of her husband had affected her badly, but sometimes he thought he could see light at the end of the tunnel of her grief. But not last night. She'd drunk too much and had gone to bed sobbing. His heart went out to her, but he knew that when she was in that kind of mood there was no reaching her.

  'There's been a shooting in Loughborough Junction,' said Mobray, when Sean had sat down. 'Three Asians shot and killed. All known to us. And all known to John Jenner…'

  Sean could hardly believe his ears. Jenner again. It seemed like the man was haunting him.

  '…I know it's not our manor,' Mobray went on, 'but it all seems to be too much of a coincidence that his name's popped up again.'

  You can say that again, thought Sean.

  'Anyway, that's what the source says, and right now the source is God. So get down to the scene and liaise with Superintendent Bowers from AMIP. He's in charge of the murder squad. Area drugs is there too. These bastards have been playing fast and loose with Class A for years and now it looks as if the chickens have come home to roost. Take Childs with you. And tread carefully, boy. The Chief Super at Brixton doesn't like his corns being trod on.'

  'I'd like to meet this source,' Said Sean.

  'So would I,' said Mobray. 'And maybe one day we will. But right now I want to know if Jenner had anything to do with this latest incident. From what I can gather it's like a butcher's shop down there and I'd dearly like to get him off the streets if he fits the frame.'

  "Why us, guv'nor?' asked Sean. 'Seems like a waste of time to me. Haven't we got enough going on here without going outside our jurisdiction? Sounds like the world and his wife are already dealing with it. We'll probably just get in the way.'

  'And you're an expert on the use of manpower from this station now, are you?'

  'No, guv. It's just a bit thin, that's all. This Jenner bloke looked like he had one foot in the grave to me. And his sidekick wasn't too fast on his feet either.'

  'They've been a thorn in my… our side, for too long,' said Mobray. 'If there's a war kicking off, I want to know all about it. Just go. And then come back and tell me what's going on. Simple enough for you?'

  'Yes, guv.'

  'Then get out of here and do your job.'

  Sean found Bobby Childs at his usual table in the canteen, chewing on a.pastie. 'You and me, Bobby,' he said. 'We're off to Loughborough Junction. I hope you can keep that down. A bit of a nasty one by all accounts.'

  'I thrive on them, son,' said Childs swallowing the last piece of tough pastry filled with gristle. 'What's it all about?'

  Sean explained what little he knew as they went, plus the theories about Jenner and Chas.

  'Those bastards will never quit until they're dead,' said Childs, lighting a cigarette as they walked to Sean's car. 'Don't smoke in my car, Bobby,' said Sean.

  'Health police,' mumbled Childs, but he dropped the quarter-smoked cigarette and ground it into the tarmac of the carpark before he climbed aboard. 'By the way,' he said en route, 'I checked the numbers of those motors outside Jenner's house that day.'

  'And?'

  'The black Merc belongs to a security company up west. Top drawer. Look after the likes of Madonna and Tom Cruise when they're in town. Ex- SAS, you know the sort of thing. Wouldn't tell me a dicky bird. As soon as I said who I was they put me on hold. I listened to twenty minutes of Bridge Over Troubled Waters easy listening style before I hung up. The Range Rover was more interesting. Belonged to a dotcom - or should it be dotcon - company based in Lisle, France. Went down the tubes with the rest of them a couple of years back. I spoke to interplod. No trace lost or stolen. No trace at all, so I suppose Jenner could've taken it as part payment for a debt.'

  'Dead end?' said Sean.

  'Yeah. And the Bentley's legit. Registered to Jenner.'

  '
So nothing.'

  'Apart from the fact he thinks he needs a couple of heavy duty, heavy money minders, no. The Rover could be of interest to Customs and Excise. I gave them a bell, but they didn't seem too keen, so I left it.'

  'We'll catch them on the flip side,' said Sean.

  They drove to the warehouse in Loughborough Junction, which was already a hive of activity by the time they arrived. The whole place had been cordoned off with blue police tape and there were the usual collection of plain and marked police vehicles parked around the perimeter, inside which white-suited SOCOs were busily searching every cranny. Outside the cordon, a crowd had gathered, with several recognisable journalists already there and at least two television crews setting up.

  Sean showed his ID to a uniformed sergeant who pointed him in the direction of a soberly attired, iron grey haired man talking to a young woman by a skip that was being searched by uniformed officers.

  'Superintendent Bowers?' said Sean, as he and Childs approached them. The grey haired man frowned. 'Who wants him?'

  'Sergeant Sean Pierce from Streatham,' said Sean. 'And DC Childs. My guv'nor DI Mobray sends his compliments. Seems like all this could have something to do with a target we're investigating.'

  'Name?'

  'John Jenner.'

  'John Jenner, eh? I thought he was dead.'

  'So did a lot of people apparently, sir, but he's still with us. Although not looking too good.'

  'Well, that's improved my day. I always did fancy dancing on that particular individual's grave.'

  'Something for us, sir?' asked the woman, a tall blonde wearing a woollen hat and a puffa jacket over jeans and boots.

  'Maybe,' said Bowers. 'Pierce, is it?' Sean nodded. 'This is DI Cooper. Sally Cooper. My good right arm. Have a chat with her. If you're lucky she might let you have a look inside although it's not something I recommend. Me, I'm going for a scout round. Sally, look after these two, but make sure they don't step into anything that might be important.'

  'Understood,' said Cooper, and Bowers moved off, looking around as he went, as if for important clues.

  'What exactly happened?' Sean asked Cooper as they walked towards the building.